Patterns in the Chaos
by Mackenzie L
Summary: An exploration of Carlisle and Esme's experiences during the newborn battle in Eclipse. Canon interpretation. M for violent themes.
1. Part I: Esme

**Patterns in the Chaos**

**by Mackenzie L.**

_An exploration of Carlisle and Esme's experiences during the newborn battle in Eclipse. Canon interpretation. _

**-}0{-**

_This story will be four chapters in all: the first following Esme's point of view before and during the battle, the second following Carlisle during the same period of time, the third detailing the aftermath, and the fourth how they heal one another. _

_The first two chapters are organized abstractly, as a series of chronological moments and flashbacks from the time of preparation before the newborn army arrives to the crux of the battle itself._

**-}0{-**

_This story has been rated M for violence and implied themes of sexuality mentioned in some flashbacks._

_*The Twilight Saga and all of its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer._

* * *

><p><strong>Part I: Esme<strong>

She remembers the way he looked at her that morning, before it all began. His eyes, filled with that sensuous shade of deepest gold, like a Venetian sunset peering over her shoulder. The warmth of his gaze had been so reassuring, so filled with love and courage. Their eyes had not met directly, but just the sense of him behind her had been more than enough. It seemed Carlisle was always watching over her... But now the question haunted her: would he always be there to guide her?

Now, in the face of life and death, she could not be so sure.

He had taken her hands and enveloped them in his own, running his fingers over the sparse inches of skin on her wrists and palms. It literally hurt that he could not touch her more intimately. They'd been forced to keep a distance, restraining themselves to what was reasonable in the presence of others' company.

That moment had lasted a few minutes at most, and those minutes had been painful. Not so far away, her beloved children were being _trained _to fight in a battle. Those dear Quileute boys _– _so beautifully blind behind their masculine enthusiasm _– _were hardly any more prepared. She could hear it all taking place just yards behind where she and her husband stood. Carlisle acted as a wall between her and the rest of the world _– _but his presence could not keep her from hearing it.

His arms had tightened around her waist as he pulled her back against him, breathing a sigh over the top of her head. She faced the stunning mountainside, looking out over an endless fortress of blue pines that stretched for miles. A thin gray mist lingered at the bottom of the mountain like a mote around a majestic castle. The mist flowed in silence around the rocks, gentle but ominous.

Jacob Black's boyish laughter met her ears, then faded away just as quickly as it had come. She had thought there was something subtly insecure about that laughter; it was the laughter of a boy who was eager to cover up his fear, but it was also the laughter of someone who could make himself believe that his fear was forgettable.

She could hear Jasper's authoritative drawl in the midst of some stubborn voices. She could hear several different arguments taking place in different corners of the field at one time. But above it all there were also peaceful birds singing somewhere far away, the glassy melody of waterfalls trickling on the mountaintop, a quiet whistle of wind riding the air above her. And directly behind her, her lover's gentle breath washing over her ear.

"It looks like a painting, doesn't it?" he'd asked her, something in his words inherently romantic. It stung.

He was trying to distract her, trying to calm her nerves by asking her to see the beauty in what surrounded them. Her eyes wandered over the glorious scene, soaking in all of nature's familiar colors.

She nodded her head and trusted that he understood her reply. She just couldn't bring herself to speak out loud. She couldn't talk with him about trivial things when her mind was in such a dark place.

Carlisle had taken her away from it all for a while; having seen the stress in her eyes as she watched them prepare for what lay ahead, he was unable to bear it any longer. Esme was grateful for the escape, no matter how brief. She had a hard time taking in what was transpiring before her very eyes. In hindsight she could have prepared herself more. But the truth was, she hadn't really stopped to think that any of it would actually be _happening _one day.

It was all talk until the fateful day came.

She wondered if anyone else was truly as ready as they appeared to be. Perhaps they were all pretending to comfort themselves, simply to reassure one another.

Or perhaps she was just lacking the courage that everyone else seemed to have.

She knew they were concerned about her. Even then she could hear the way their voices lowered when they glanced in her direction. Even then she knew that every time Carlisle turned his head the slightest bit, he was meeting their curious stares with a silent reassurance. Rather than feel embarrassed by it, she'd accepted what was to come with reluctant resolve. They could speculate all they wanted about how she was the least ready of them all. She had to have faith that when the time came, she would be on her feet with the rest of them, just as headstrong and just as brave.

"Are you ready to go back now?" her husband whispered.

It was the first time he had spoken in five minutes.

He held her hand tighter and rested his chin on her shoulder, waiting patiently for a response.

She nodded, noticing the mist in the valley had finally dispersed.

**-}0{-**

"Remember that I will always be with you, no matter how this ends," he had said, his finger curling against her cheek as if to collect an invisible tear.

She had never remembered an ache quite like the one she had felt as he touched her then. It was not enough, that brief caress of his knuckle. It was too smooth, too quick. Gone before she could truly savor it. Yet it was more powerful than even the most fierce embrace could have been.

He could promise things like this, but the comfort she gleaned from those promises came not from his words but from the sound of his voice. When she actually listened to what he was saying, it made the pain worse. Would he _really _be there if this ended the way they feared it would?

No. He would not.

It was not even bittersweet anymore. It was a sentence for utter despair.

She had drawn his hand closer to her cheek and laced her fingers with his, closing her eyes as she tried to soak in the strength from him. She could feel him watching her intently as she did this, but he was not mystified by her anymore. He was so far past treating her like a puzzle that must be solved. He knew her too well now. His stare was composed only of love, with just a hint of awe. She had not needed to look into his eyes to know this.

"Will we survive this?" she had asked him, her breath catching as she timidly added, "All of us?"

She had not posed her question properly. In any other circumstance she would have phrased it better: _Do you believe _we'll make it?_ Do you think _we can do this?

This time she had not asked Carlisle for his belief. She had not asked him for his thought. She had simply asked him, as if he'd had the power to predict it, an infallible oracle at her bidding.

He was silent for a long while before he pressed his head to hers and lowered their linked hands between them, sheltering her from the cold wind. He was prolonging his reply, preparing himself to deliver the right words, praying for the strength to speak them without a hitch in his voice.

"We have justice on our side,"he finally whispered, his voice as tired as his soul was.

Her eyes left their place on his chin, disenchanted as she stared at the wet ground beneath their feet. "But is it enough?"

His thumb stroked a feather-light path along her knuckles.

"What does your heart tell you?"

"That I believe we can do this."

One of his hands parted from the place where their fingers were tightly knotted, resting against her midriff. With a gentle touch he raised her chin, encouraging her eyes to lift from the ground and meet his face.

"We must not only have belief, Esme," he said, his voice hushed but fervent, a tinge of weariness overcome by passion. "We must have _conviction_."

She gave a watery smile in response to his didactic words. "Does even the smallest doubt ever enter your mind, Carlisle?"

His lip curved slightly as though he were tempted to smile, but his eyes were serious when he spoke. "Doubts may enter my mind from time to time... But since the sun rose this morning, not one doubt has entered my heart."

In that moment she felt a little sparkle of assuredness, feeling there was no possible way to argue with Carlisle's heart. He sounded so fantastically certain, so concrete in this belief that her worries suddenly seemed unjustified in every way _– _even if it lasted for a moment's time.

"You rely so much on your heart, my love," she sighed, exhaustion and fondness warming her voice as she tucked a wisp of wind-blown blond hair away from his forehead.

"It has never failed me before," he'd said with a soft, wise smile. Then he leaned in to kiss her on the corner of her mouth, whispering huskily against her lips, _"Bright Eyes..."_

He had used the nickname ceaselessly with her before they were married and shortly after. Decades went by where he would never say it, then suddenly it would slip from his tongue unexpectedly, making it all the more bittersweet to hear. It meant more to her because he so rarely used it. But hearing him use it now felt like the kiss of death.

He wouldn't have said it now unless he feared this could be the end.

He kissed her lovingly on the lips, and all through his kiss she found herself sinking in a sea of regrets.

**-}0{-**

The last time they had made love had been too quick _– _effortless, but quick.

He'd been pretending to read his books in his study when it happened. He had read everything in his library at least a dozen times before. Carlisle never _really read_ anything unless it was brand new. He only ever pretended to read one of his old books when he wanted her to initiate something...

She always knew when he was inviting her. He rarely did it with words, being the more silent type he was. He'd left his trail of usual hints: the wide open door, the conveniently closed blinds, the old book resting in one of his hands as he sat leisurely behind his desk. His eyes had been lazily skimming the page, not really seeing anything. She knew his mind was far away, tucked behind the peaceful countenance he wore, lit by a single candle.

He had looked up at her, indiscreetly, when she appeared in the doorway. Everything about him had been perfectly innocent. Until he showed her his eyes.

His face was gentle, but his eyes were drops of deep, black midnight. His fingers moved to touch his necktie, slowly twisting it till it came undone. He left the rest for her to decide whether it stayed or came off.

His study had smelled like cinnamon and liquid antibiotics.

He had taken her in his lap; never left his chair. Her head had been resting on his shoulder while he mated with her, and she had stared at the walls of books behind his desk the entire time.

It had not been perfect.

If she could go back in time and change that now, she would.

She would have looked at his face instead of those damned books. She would have looked into his eyes, and held his gaze like a rope in a windstorm, like those days when they were first learning to love each other. They had both been so _afraid _to look away from the other's eyes in those days. There was something tragic and beautiful about that fear. Had they truly lost some of it over so many years?

One of his books had fallen off the desk from the jolt of his final thrust, and out of its pages fluttered a dozen tiny orange and yellow petals from a Latana flower he'd pressed inside of it ages ago.

Esme's eyes had been so distracted by those little flowers, wondering where he'd found them, how old they were, how long they'd been pressed inside of that book waiting to release their forgotten fragrance.

Perhaps he had stolen them from an exotic Spanish dancer. Perhaps he had been walking alone in the gardens of Granada in the 19th Century and decided to pick the enchanting flowers to keep himself company.

Only after wondering these things did Esme realize that her husband was still madly stroking that sweet little place in her lap with his thumb.

She never reached her climax.

Maybe looking into his eyes would have helped.

But what upset her the most was that she had never found out the story behind Carlisle's hidden Latana flowers. He'd cleaned them up afterwards, and tossed them into the waste basket like they had never even mattered.

But now Esme keeps thinking about them, wondering about them. Carlisle rarely keeps flowers in his study. He prefers the more noble breeds of flora _– _all grapevines and olive trees and other ancient symbols of fertility. Never flowers.

It infuriates her that she may never have the chance to ask him why.

**-}0{-**

It had hurt her then. But it hurts ever so much more now.

As she waits in the hauntingly quiet forest, she can't help but think that this is the "calm before the storm." These little, fleeting, random thoughts keep prickling inside her mind. She is thinking of the poem he read to her two days ago _– _a thought that has nothing to do with this moment at all.

"Desert Places" by Robert Frost.

She had seen him carrying the book around with him for days before she found him, on the floor, slumped against the wall in his study. He'd looked like a college student who had just come back from class, with his crooked tie and his untucked shirt, his blond hair ruffled out of place so that it showed some of its youthful length. He'd taken off his lab coat in a hurry and left it beside him on the hard wood floor. He had been so immersed in reading that he hadn't realized she was there until she settled beside him on the ground.

She asked him to read it out loud.

She'd thought very little of that poem when her husband had first read it for her. Now it haunts her ceaselessly.

_And lonely as it is, that loneliness_

_Will be more lonely ere it will be less._

She can hear the scattered stanzas echoing through her memory in Carlisle's gentle voice, each line stealing her breath and tossing pebbles into the lake of her fear.

_They cannot scare me with their empty spaces_

_Between stars _– _on stars where no human race is._

Her fear begins to ripple at the thought of _any_ of them being alone when this over. One of her children, God forbid, could be left there on the field amidst the battle's ruins. Jasper. Alice. Emmett. Rosalie.

For a brief, strange moment it is Emmett who sparks her dearest concerns. The image of his distraught, bulky form hunched over the body of a mangled Rosalie pulls Esme's protective instincts into a fiery rage.

The scenarios speed through her mind – Alice shrieking as Jasper's limbs are broken in an attack that was too quick to catch. Rosalie brutally crushed by a mob of uncontrolled newborns, trying to take on more than she could handle. Carlisle's body being snapped in half before her very eyes...

She chokes on her own venom at the imagined sight, a chill of crippling terror rocketing up her spine.

No, she cannot let that happen.

Suddenly, everything she's ever told him, confessed to him, asked of him feels like it wasn't enough. She should have held him longer, should have kissed him harder; should have said "I love you" one more time...

Everything she's ever regretted saying, all of the arguments they've had in the past – it all seems so disgustingly petty now in the face of mortal danger, when this hour could be their last together. She wishes she had forgiven him sooner for those times she felt he had wronged her. She wishes she hadn't let her pride get in the way of admitting _she_ was wrong from time to time.

Now everything Carlisle has ever done feels a thousand times more righteous. Now, everything he has told her holds a thousand times more truth.

She takes one last glance at him before they break the boundary of the forest.

Her heart breaks when he must let go of her hand.

**-}0{-**

There is a moment just before their hands break apart, a final flashback of their first night as one that offers her peace before she must part with the other half of her soul...

"Let me look at you," she had whispered as she twisted her fingers around the edge of the cover that protected his body. She wanted to see all of him, all of that body which had given her such unthinkable pleasure on this night.

His head fell back in a limp nod of consent, his hair ruffling against the pillows like lazy blond artwork.

Her breath caught as she slowly drew the covers from his body.

Every piece of him was solid, pale and gleaming in the moonlight. The shadows fought for dominance, seeking to conquer the light that played over his form. The silent battle of light and shadow yielded appealing contours on the smooth valleys of his muscles, as he shifted his weight beneath her stare.

He took her hand and used her to aid his bearings as his back rose from the bed. As if by magnetic will, her heart tumbled forward to greet his as his chest came closer.

For a long time he looked into her eyes, never moving for fear of breaking the brittle bliss between them. His expression was serious, and weary, and full of wonder as his eyes sojourned over the features of her face. And it now perturbed Esme, not knowing his exact thoughts. She had come to know him on so intimate level, and for this moment, she felt like he was gone.

As if reading her worry, he held her hand tighter, brushing it longingly against his hip. With his free hand he reached up to tuck one caramel curl behind her ear. On this ear he lingered, drawing his finger down to her chin. And on her chin he lingered, drawing her chin up to his lips.

He kissed her patiently, and she kissed him back, tasting the melancholy tip of his tongue before he retreated.

She wanted to ask him if he had known that love was so unrelenting, so absorbing, so scandalously harsh when shared between two bodies. She wanted to torture him with questions, philosophical and deep and impossible. And she wanted him to answer her with the first thing that came to his mind, whether it made sense or not. Nothing needed to make sense anymore – sense and logic had been the illusions all along. But this – this unrelenting, absorbing love – was reality. This was the spiritual truth behind the curtain of reason. It was dark and light at once. It broke every rule, gracefully.

His eyes were so close to hers, she felt she could swim inside them. In his gaze she lost herself, floating in the deep golden reef of his secrets. He was so open for her, yet still so protective. The ripe revelations he offered with every blink grew heavier in her heart as she took them in. She wanted more, even when the weight was too much to bear.

He closed his eyes for a moment, covering the world beneath his lashes, and Esme felt winded by the impact of being shut out. But his hands were on her arms again, holding tightly, reminding her that they were still safe, still connected. His chest was rising, falling, lifting and relaxing as it had always done – this same way for centuries, his every breath was the same. But now as she watched the innocent pattern, soft sobs collected in her throat. The need to care for him grew too great, and her lips lunged for his, desperate to clutch back the connection she worried they would lose...

This was home. This unexplainable realm that existed here, on this bed, in his arms, with the feel of his body, hard and warm against hers. The more parts of them that touched, the more whole she felt. The closer they were, the less sense the world made. When she closed her eyes she saw nothing but bright, beautiful nonsense. She felt what she saw, all across her body, melting into her soul. He touched her, he whispered on her forehead, he shared with her his fever.

He was so broken when they first began, and he was slowly finding the way the pieces fit back together. It was the most beautiful thing in the world to watch him struggle, slow and agonizing, but she had given him her hand when he had needed it...

**-}0{-**

It all happens too fast.

She'd thought it would be a powerful, terrifying moment when she saw the "army" charging at her and her family. But instead she feels completely numb, as if she is a part of some digital game and not real life.

With every body she beats to the ground, the strange feeling intensifies.

She can see _him _every so often, just a flash of his face or the side of his arm as he swings it to break his enemy. She must strain to see him through her own pain, but still her eyes try to find him.

Her body seems drawn to him _– _in whichever direction he is, some mysterious stream of gravity pulls her toward him. She cannot fight it, so she lets herself flow along with it, using its power to her advantage. She can tell when he is moving, and when he still; when he is hurting and when he gets back up on his feet again. He is not as quick as his sons are, but he has instincts that they do not _– _the primal instincts of a father.

And she now has the instincts of a mother.

This insane, maternal fire fills her from head to toe. She feels loose, yet tense _– _bound tight as a wire, yet agile and graceful as a feline. She is ready to pounce on anything that moves, her eyes feel sharp and wide, like she can see for miles. Her senses respond to every iota of stimuli around her _– _the scent of the trees, the sound of a beetle crawling over bark, the wind's subtle change in direction. They are all beasts in the wilderness, a savage mess of rage _– _but this only terrifies her if she stops to think.

It's better not to think out here.

Instead she looks inside of herself, to that deep place within that relies on nothing but instinct alone.

She can feel her heart inside of her chest, though it has been dormant for nearly a century; she can feel its solid weight beneath her breast. It is heavier than she remembers. If she pays close enough attention she can feel it knocking against her lungs as she runs.

It makes her feel stronger.

**-}0{-**

She remembers the day Edward first called her his mother.

It was on the very day she and Carlisle had been married, a mere hour before they would consummate their love for the very first time.

Edward had taken her outside, somewhere where they could have a moment alone before he left for the night. It had all been so unbearably bittersweet, with the fragile state of her emotions that evening, his confession had only made it worse.

"I want you to know that I don't _need _a mother. I never have," he'd said, his handsome young face glistening in the blazing orange light of the sunset beyond. "But that doesn't mean I don't _want _a mother."

A gasp had fallen from her lips when she realized what he was saying.

"I want _you _to be my mother."

It seems like it was only yesterday that Edward had told her these things, yet she feels as if she has been his mother forever. She thinks of where he is today, how far he has come to finally find love only to have it threatened with every step he takes. Bella is a walking risk for all of them, yet she is the only thing keeping Edward tied to the world.

That is why they must fight to save her.

In the end, this is also a fight to save their family.

For without Bella, Edward would not exist.

**-}0{-**

She finds herself surrounded by a barrier of vicious vampires, their teeth glinting and eyes wild with unprecedented hatred. The unfamiliar scent of their venom is sickening and makes her skin crawl. For a second she feels the threat _– _the initial, claustrophobic burst of fear she used to let consume her to the point of breaking down. Years ago she would have fled, or surrendered, or called out for help. But now she knows that she has what it takes to defeat numbers greater than herself.

She raises her arm and strikes.

Killing is too easy for their kind. It is the aftereffect that frightens her most.

Her passion helps her to override the guilt. She can only imagine what her husband must feel when he sees those empty pairs of eyes staring up at him...

But when she looks to him at last, she sees that he is fighting just as fiercely, appearing just as merciless. The sight of him so filled with rage sends a chill to her heart. This is not the man she knows him to be, but it is the man he must become for this brief lot of time.

He takes well to the role.

Three victims have fallen to her feet; she steps on them as she flees the scene. They will become part of the ground one day, melting into the earth and joining that hidden circle of life. This comforts her somewhat.

**-}0{-**

She hears the same loud, sickening crack each time one of them is beheaded. That harsh porcelain firework bursts out of each one's neck as they snap off, one by one.

She is running through them and they just seem to be growing exponentially in number, pouring out by the hundreds from some unseen source. It's as if a warped dimension has opened in the middle of the field, releasing them fifty at a time. There is not one minute to let her guard down, not one split second to take a healing breath and regain her strength. She must instead become faster, work harder, be stronger than she was before with every step she takes.

Swift becomes methodical, and methodical becomes robotic.

Under her feet the ground pushes back, urging her to go faster.

She feels that she is being chased somehow, but she cannot stop to look over her shoulder and see who it is.

Then she feels the hand on her arm _– _more like a claw. Long fingernails dig into her impenetrable flesh, threatening to puncture her veins.

She whips around and assumes a stance of defense, remembering Jasper's words.

It hardly helps.

A man has hooked his arm around her neck, the pressure nearly unbearable. She tries to breathe in but chokes on nothing, her hands grappling desperately at the newborn's granite muscles. She can feel the fibers of her very flesh crackling underneath her skin, ready to split. The world tips on its side through her eyes, dim and drunken, burning the edges of her consciousness...

Just before her vision dips into ebony, another rough hand tears the man's arm away from her neck.

Twice before she had been saved by Emmett. She assumes it is her son again who has come to her rescue. But this time it is her husband who has saved her.

All she needs to see is his pale blond hair, striking against the black of his clothes. He is the only one out here who stands out so much, and she wants to believe it is not only because she is biased. His compassion seems to envelop him like a protective aura, making him glow like a brilliant beacon of light. His face may be fierce _– _unlike she has ever seen it before _– _but there is something still inherently gentle in his eyes. They are glittering a violent black as he tears her attacker away, throwing the newborn on the ground and shattering its face with the sole of his shoe.

After this, they never part.

She had come too close to death without him by her side. He had felt too empty and distracted without her near.

So now they fight together.

The attacks do not seem as threatening as they did before.

A woman with long black hair strikes at Esme's face. Jasper's words make perfect sense now, as she mimics the graceful ease of her daughters and sons, jerking swiftly out of the way. The woman grows angry in her confusion, tossing a blow in the direction of Esme's neck. But Esme is ready this time.

Knowing her husband is just feet away, her confidence is irrepressible. She locks the struggling newborn in her arms, bending her backward so that half her body is suspended above the ground. In all but an instant she raises her eyes to her husband, and his arm slices through the woman's neck, breaking her head like a hollow bowl of ceramic.

They cannot rest for one moment's time, but they do not need to. They can feed off of one another's energy as they run, and they will never run out of strength.

Their strength renews itself, like venom healing wounds. Every time they think they have lost a fight, they come out stronger than before. There are times when Carlisle needs saving; Esme rescues him. There are times when both of them need saving; one of their children will inevitably come and save them both. They seem to be everywhere at once, somehow destroying their enemies though the numbers are greatly off-balance.

Esme supposes her family has been blessed with a miracle.

She has conviction, now.

Perhaps her husband had been right to trust his heart.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** Please tell me what you think! Read chapter two for Carlisle's POV.  
><em>


	2. Part II: Carlisle

**Part II: Carlisle**

He thinks back to the tense minutes they had spent in the forest before the battle that morning; the way the blue-green mist had concealed her beautiful profile in the darkness, her lashes blinking nervously every so often, her wide eyes darting to and fro, ready and alert.

She had not needed to be so anxious. They hadn't known it then, but nothing would be coming their way. They had been safe then. So safe in that forest together, amidst the incense of regal pines, beneath the hovering sanctuary of trees that were older than both of them combined.

He had reached across and tucked a tendril of silky hair behind her ear, watching over her as her breathing calmed and her eyes lidded, so pleased with his effect on her.

She turned her face up to him, her eyes glassy, her cheeks soft, her lips full. He was convinced that every feature of her face looked more appealing to him in that moment because of his fear. A part of him was just reaching the realization that this could be his last time looking at her face.

Somewhere out there in the maze of trees and shadows, Jasper and Alice were whispering their last hurried words of reassurance to one another. Their sounds grew more distant as they moved further into the woods, heading North where the battle would begin. They were on their waiting stars, wired with energy, by far the most confident pair among them. They were ready.

Rosalie and Emmett had somehow managed to make use of the last several minutes before the fight. The passion was palpable around them as they raced to the forest's edge, side by side, their strong voices speaking promises to outwit and to conquer. They were harsh. They were riled up. And though they may have only fooled themselves into thinking it, they, too, were ready.

Carlisle had secretly thought his wife to be the only one unprepared for what was to come. He had looked into her swollen pupils and seen something he could not place if his life had depended on it. His hand had reached out to clutch hers tightly, and before he could speak, she had leapt from the ground and kissed him with the beautiful roughness and burning intensity of one who felt the horizon chasing her feet.

He had kissed her back just as passionately, his chest thrumming with certainty that this was the moment he would one day remember as his final exaltation. His arms wrapped around her delicate body and held her firmly against him, a whimper shuddering in the depths of his throat as her small hands tore a familiar path through his thick blond hair.

He remembers her words to him in that titillating, climactic moment when their faces parted... just after their kiss had ended and just before the battle began.

_"I never knew I could feel so brave." _

Her eyes had glowed for the briefest instant, a spark of glorious gold in the darkest of places.

He had wanted to say _"I love you."_ But he never had the chance.

The next thing he knew he was sprinting at bullet speed through the trees, his wife far out of his line of sight. He could feel her there, somewhere, but he could not speak to her or touch her or see her...

The three words he had failed to let free from his tongue were bound to haunt him. This was not the time for such a distraction. He tried to tell himself that it was all right; Esme knew he loved her. She did not need to hear the words to know it.

Since the moment they let go of one another he has been pinned to the ground, tossed through the air, and beaten against a crowd of foreign bodies.

But all he can think about are the words he forgot to say.

**-}0{-**

He can see her in his mind, at separate moments of their life together – each image of her bleeds into the next, a continuous stream of consciousness. It is a beautiful, incomprehensible reel of film, frustratingly dark and disorderly, but with bright spots that stand out like diamonds in a river of tar.

He sees her in her last moments as a human, inches away from the brink of death... Her lips dripping with the blood of a human child as he cradles her in his arms on a cold, wet floor... Her beautiful face painted with pleasure as he joins their bodies for the first time.

That moment freezes and replays itself agonizingly slowly so that he was forced to remember every detail – the way her lips had parted, the precise shade of black her eyes had been, the thrilling hitch of her breath and the blessed gasp that had filled the silence when she felt him bridge the gap to the most intimate depth imaginable...

He knew that she could feel his love, swirling deep inside of her. With a tender, straining stroke, he filled her, felt her, guiding himself through the passage that led straight to her soul. When he found it, she cried.

He pushed slowly into her soul, testing the depth... and when he found he could go no further, his eyes glossed over and he whimpered with sadness. So he pulled back and dove a second time. This time her soul was ready for him.

Everything she kept hidden rushed into his eyes. He was watching her through it all, measuring every detail of her expression, savoring each reaction before she could grant her permission to show it.

His breaths were ragged and heavy, indecent as he beat his hips against hers – soft then forceful – a tender war of opposites. He was drinking in all that her eyes were showing him, and she could see the reflections of her secrets falling like snowflakes on the coals of his open gaze.

He whispered her name with conviction. It was a word, but he made it a sentence. He made her name a piece of literature when he said it. His lips parted, but no more words came forth. His eyes were struggling to stay focused... all of his concentration was sinking lower, deeper... His focus was entirely inside of her.

She let him focus.

Her head rested back against the pillow as she listened to the deliciously fragile sounds they made together, locking and unlocking, merging and retreating. Her legs felt light around his waist, the flutters of his muscles dancing up her calves and into her thighs. Her voice broke in a shimmery sigh as he mastered the motions at last, finding the balance point and seizing full advantage of his precious discovery.

He pulled back and thrust once, strong and firm and straight, forcing their souls to collide.

Her gaze was gone as she flung her arms up for him, and he melted down into her, purring and crying. His hips settled into stillness as she throbbed around him, and he stopped to feel her, to let her soul entwine with his. It was beautifully frustrating that the miracle could be felt, but not touched.

Carlisle wanted to reach down with his curious hand and touch this burning connection… but it was too deep between them, too dangerous a thing to meddle with. He could see the same wish in Esme's eyes, and her hands were shaking with want. She, too, wanted to reach inside and touch their tangled souls.

"Can you feel me?" he asked, his voice deep but desperate, almost lost.

"Yes," she responded – he knew not how she had such strength left to say the word. 'I feel all of you,' her eyes finished in a much clearer timbre.

His face calmed with her reassurance, but there was a gleam of something still unsatisfied in the darkest corners of his gaze. "What do I feel like?" he made the seductive words sound innocent, needy.

He nuzzled her forehead while he awaited her answer, watching as she struggled to describe the unthinkable sensation with familiar words.

"Strong." She swallowed. "...warm..." She shuddered. "Deep."

She held him tighter. He cried softly.

"Look at me," he breathed.

She looked.

His voice was weaker the second time he asked her.

"What do I feel like?"

"Salvation."

**-}0{-**

He tries to force it to the back of his mind, tries to bury it away and focus on what is happening now. But these thoughts keep taunting him, nagging him, making him question whether anything so perfect will ever be possible again.

He catches Esme's scent briefly – that sweet, achingly familiar fragrance of passion and lilac, both warm and cool on his skin. He senses her sheer femininity and it stings him like a bullet to his belly. She is fighting on her own out there. All on her own. Her solitude, even if lasts for only a second, is a slap to his face. He cannot stand the thought of his mate alone, without him by her side.

But right now he cannot reach her.

This frustration overwhelms him, chafing away his concentration.

She makes him vulnerable in a time when he should be at his strongest.

**-}0{-**

He desperately wants to be territorial, to claim everything in sight. The land, his family, his honor. He has never lusted after this kind of power before, and it frightens him.

All because of this unassuming young girl with whom his son has fallen in love.

There is a violent strike of anger for a moment as Carlisle thinks of Bella. She is so naive, so hopeless, so clueless. All of _this _is her fault. She is a threat to his family and yet he is fighting to keep her alive. It makes no sense for that terrible second he lets the thought slip past his better judgment. Running on pure instinct can do that to a man, no matter how compassionate.

But Bella is his son's other half, and Carlisle would sooner be damned than let her meet any harm.

He must use his misplaced anger for good.

And so he lets the anger surge through his body, propelling him forward like a gust of wind on which he has no choice but to let himself fly. Every figure who crosses his path is sentenced to death despite how much it repulses him to do it.

His hands, which were normally instruments of healing, become deadly weapons on this battlefield. He knows that he will be unable to look at his own hands for days after this… if he makes it through alive. The universe is twisted most unpleasantly, but he must convince himself it is for the greater good that he must become this kind of man – just for this day. Just for a few more hours...

His heart gives a jolt with every neck he breaks; the scorch of guilt consumes him, and an irrational apology nearly spills from his lips every time he looks down and accidentally sees their faces – the face of a woman or man who was once human, just like him.

Then he must remember his family, the danger they are all in because of these men and women. He must try to see them as mere creatures, not as unique faces with a story and a soul.

He must become a ruthless monster like them.

**-}0{-**

He charges through the masses, tearing through limbs where they block his path. He follows a pounding tempo, like a deep, dreadful heartbeat rising from the ground as he slams into rock-solid bodies all around. It is that disturbing _pounding_ in his ears, in his feet, in his chest – it reminds him of those compressions, his frantic attempts to resuscitate a dying patient on the operating table. It reminds him of sex – the rough, desperate, 'can't feel this ever coming to an end' rhythm that only begs him to move faster, his arms thrusting in all directions, his feet digging up the grass.

There is a brief moment where he longs to be anywhere but here. At the hospital, treating his patients, laughing with his sons as they hunt in the Alaskan mountains together, lying nude on the sands of Isle Esme with only his wife's shadow for shelter.

He wishes.

He wishes he was anywhere but here.

**-}0{-**

He remembers the time when Alice convinced him to slow dance with her to "Stranger in Paradise" back in 1953. He sees the dance she is doing now, and he hates the violence of it. He misses that day when Alice danced with him, slow and carefree as Tony Bennett's voice crooned in the background, her tiny features lighting up when her new father twirled her under his arm.

He remembers the time when Rosalie would never speak to him, that dreadful period of his life where she resented him so much for changing her that she refused to be caught in the same room with him for months after her transformation. He wishes now that he would have been more open with her, used words to get through to her and not just his never ending, apologetic silence. She had given him the coldest shoulder he had ever known... He shouldn't have waited so long to warm her sooner.

He remembers the day Rosalie came bursting through the doors of their house, dragging Emmett's massive body in her arms. Her hair, soaking wet and dull brown from the rain storm, the droplets running down her cheeks like tears as she begged him to do something for this poor man. She had called him _Doctor _on that day, as if the use of the distant title would have shocked him enough to spring into action.

_"Please, Doctor! I beg you, help him! Change him! Make him like me! I'll take care of him till the end of eternity _ – _I'll be like a mother to him. Just do this one thing for me... Please!" _She had known her cries would render her compassionate father figure helpless to follow every order she gave him. Carlisle can still remember the frightening appeal of Emmett's savory blood as he ripped the young man's suspender straps and sunk his teeth into his shoulder.

He remembers those times when Jasper would come to him, needing guidance when he began to doubt their restrictive lifestyle. The young soldier confessed his every weakness, every accident, every thought, and asked for his father's most sincere forgiveness. Jasper had only ever allowed himself to show this vulnerability to his father and no one else. He tried to be strong for the rest of them, most of all his Alice. But with Carlisle he allowed those inner worries to seep through.

Carlisle thanked God every day that Jasper had been so quick to trust in him, so willing to forge a bond with a man whom he could have regarded as a stranger for the rest of his life. He can see the leader his son has become on this battlefield, his soldier's courage infecting them all. For once Carlisle has given up his role as the primary leader in their coven; it is Jasper whose strength has been most important to their family on this day, and Carlisle cannot be more proud of him.

He can see the boy now, a whip of dark blond hair and a streak of pale hands that move like the weapons of a martial arts master. It had always come naturally to Carlisle to call his sons "boys". But watching Jasper on this field, with his hands like lightning and his movements so dizzying and violent, Carlisle can only bear to call him a man in his mind.

Emmett, with his Spartan fierceness and broad, blockade-like body, looks more like an Olympian guard who has fallen from the sky. He, too, can be called nothing but a man.

And if Edward were here...

_If Edward were here._

The thought whips at Carlisle's heart like a scorpion tail. The angst has already infected him to the deepest point, and he cannot bear to take on more of the burden. It burns him to wonder where his son will be after this is over. If he is even able to walk the face of the earth without shattering to pieces. What ruins might Edward find if he came back, with the love of his life latching onto his arm, sobbing uncontrollably at the devastation left their wake?

Carlisle cringes.

Bella is so fragile. Edward is so unprepared.

They are counting on their family to save them both.

**-}0{-**

Carlisle remembers the first time he saw Isabella Swan. In spite of how precariously she sat upon the hospital bed, she'd had a vivacious spark in her eyes – something spirited and defiant – as if she knew she did not belong in the hospital. She had an aura of frustration about her; it was not unlike the impression Carlisle had received from many of his students while teaching – that secret look they wore, like they knew there was more to be heard than what they were being told.

He'd seen a different sort of frustration scrawled all across his son's face when he looked at Bella. That frustration, Carlisle assumed, came from too many directions to pinpoint – it was born of temptation by the scent of her blood, from Edward's unexplained inability to read her thoughts, sexual intimidation, and who knew what else. Bella was an anomaly to all of them, and Carlisle had been just as intrigued by her for as many reasons if not more than his son had.

But the girl attracted mayhem like the strongest of magnets. Few humans could irk the Volturi so effortlessly, and it seemed that just by existing Bella ignited fury in any vampire that crossed her path, nomad or not.

Carlisle had no doubts in his mind that Bella was bound to be a part of their world one day. But they all had to give a good bit of themselves – and sacrifice quite a few lives – to bring her there safely.

**-}0{-**

He wonders if it is all really worth it. Killing hundreds, sacrificing his entire family and everything he loves for the sake of one couple in love.

He imagines if it had been he and Esme in the place of Edward and Bella. Would he still believe it was all worth it if the love he shared with his wife had been on the line?

He never has to think through his answer. The heart can only reply in honesty.

He does believe it is worth it.

It almost disappoints him that he had to ask himself this question.

He has made so many discoveries on this battlefield; so many questions are being asked and answered in his mind at preposterous speeds, with barely any time left to gauge the logic of his choices. For the very reason that it all makes so little sense, he understands himself more than he ever has before. He has an incredible grasp on everything that makes men fallible and makes the world both destructible and renewable. If he had ever thought it was impossible to continue growing and changing despite his immortality, he has been proven wrong nearly one thousand times on this day alone.

Thirteen minutes, thirty-one seconds. That is how long it has taken him to age another century.

**-}0{-**

Two more heads break under his hand.

Another pair of scarlet eyes roll back into their skull.

He wishes there was some way to put his life on pause.

He wishes he could stop the world, for just a few minutes. Just enough time to breathe, to stand upright and feel the hallowed sanctity of the earth beneath his feet.

If he had that precious minute or two he would run to each of them and look into their eyes, and tell them that it was going to be all right. He would find Rosalie first; he feels as thought he has not seen her all day. She seems to have disappeared out here, fallen into some other dimension without leaving a trace behind. If she were here he would take her aside and brush the bits of long blond hair out of her severe eyes. He would probably not say much to her, but he would let her know with his gaze just how strong he knew she was.

He would find Emmett next, seeking strength from his strongest son. He would take comfort in the robust sureness of Emmett's burly voice, then he would soothe himself with Jasper's calming drawl.

He would find Alice after that; take her tiny hands and hold them to his heart, and kiss her forehead. She would smile for him, and her eyes would sparkle, silently assuring him that they would all last till the end.

Then he would find his wife.

He would not find her trembling in fear, rooted to her spot with shallow eyes and an empty face. He would find her standing straight and tall, her eyes dark but proud. Esme knew her own capabilities; she had come a long way from where she had started out so many years ago. Her newfound independence was bittersweet to him _ – _it had been new to him for so long, and a part of him would always regret that she did not really _need _him for those reasons she used to need him.

Perhaps she did not need a shoulder to cry on anymore. Perhaps she was not looking to be consoled or sheltered away from the horrors she had witnessed. Perhaps she was just fine on her own.

But he would still go to her in the lull of his wistful fantasy, and he would hold her beautiful face between his hands and stare into her eyes with the kind of depth only one who knew her soul could handle.

He would probably kiss her. Quite hard.

And she would act like she still needed him.

And maybe she _would _really need him.

But when he wakes in reality he realizes that his speculations have made no impact on reality.

Another head breaks.

**-}0{-**

At eighteen years of age, Carlisle resembled his father uncannily. He looked most like him while studying, a severe expression of deepest concentration wearing down upon his youthful features, giving the illusion that he was years past his true age. He sat with the Gospel open on his knees, his head bowed low and his fair blond hair pulled back behind his shoulders, not by fine ribbon, but by a twine made from briar. His skin, having lost its tan from the winter season now shone like snow beneath the soot that stained his hands.

No matter how enthralled he became, he stood up straight when he was approached by another, never lazy, always obedient.

He was now no less tall than his father, but to the surprise of many, nowhere near as headstrong as his elder, who was widely known for his hot temper.

Often they could be heard through the poorly insulated walls of their quarters in the evenings, quarrelling over the Scriptures and other philosophical texts. Tonight it had been the purging of impure souls that sparked an unsettling disagreement between the two.

"Justice shall always prevail in war, my son," the cold voice had strong contrast with the one whose followed.

"Doth not the thought of fighting make thee ill, father?"

"Nay," he replied curtly. "We are called to fight the good fight, in His Holy Name. The devil feedeth on our fear; if we fear the devil, we give him power."

Carlisle furrowed his brow. "I wish not for conflict. I wish for peace."

"Thou must please the Lord with a noble crusade," the pastor warned his soft-spoken son. "We must be in constant battle with our enemies. We must put the lesser man in his place, lest his soul be fruit for demons!"

"I see no sense in it," he stated strongly, lifting his head to stare at his father with bewildered blue eyes. "What right have I to expel a man whose heart has fallen into the devil's hand?"

"What right doth a wicked man have to keep his life?" the priest argued hotly. "Doth the Lord wish His earth to be a land of bitter filth, His men no better than swine?" His lips twisted into a sneer as he spoke, as if it soiled his tongue to even say the words.

But his son was calm as he replied, "The Lord must have the power to rid the world of such men Himself."

"Then what duty belongeth to thee, boy?" the man in black spat. "To retreat into shadow as a pretender of peace?" His face was seized by worry for a short moment before he shook his head with a stubborn sigh. "To bear the name of my son, thou must seek out and destroyeth all suspicious folk."

The father then turned his back on his son, intending to brook no more discussion on the matter as he headed for the door.

"It stingeth like vinegar," Carlisle seethed beneath his breath, eyes sharp upon his father's cloak.

The pastor's icy glare turned back on his son as he lifted a single, accusatory finger in a threatening point.

"The Lord's gavel shall sting thee more!"

And he left the room with a slam of the door, never looking back.

**-}0{-**

He sees Esme being strangled and it does something to him.

He can feel the anger rising in the pit of his stomach, a demonic orgy of emotions chafing away all reason. The drive to kill becomes twice as violent, his body feels twice as virile. His feet feel like feathers and his fists feel like lead.

He has never dared to imagine how Esme must have been beaten in her human years. She never spoke about it, and he never wanted her to. But when he sees her being assaulted so directly, handled so violently, he is reminded of the man who truly damned his wife to this life.

Before Carlisle can make the conscious decision to attack, the head of the vile man is a pile of glittery white ash beneath his shoe.

He never saw the man's face, and he doesn't care.

He may care tomorrow, but right now he leaves the scene with his wife's hand in his and a sensation of frightening power coursing through his veins, and he is satisfied.

**-}0{-**

Esme looks beautiful out here.

He cannot help but think it, as inappropriate as it is. Such a thought should not even cross his mind when both their lives are at stake. But as her mate, he is forever cursed to find her beauty impairing no matter where he is.

Her hair has come undone from its tightly twisted knot; it now ripples out behind her as she runs, like flames of caramel whipping the wind. Her face is pale and livid, her lips swollen, the color of cold wine. Her eyes do not stare at him, and he is relieved for that, because they would surely light fire to his soul if they did.

He admires the strike of her hand when he can, and as the attacks slowly diminish in frequency, it becomes easier to watch her without putting himself in danger.

He does not recall how the fight passed so peacefully over its climax. One moment it seemed dragons were breathing down his back at every corner, and the next the field was nearly empty, sparing only a few rogue newborns from the shadows.

It rains for a while, pours on them while they beat one another, and then it lets up.

The clouds still hang low overhead, like a thick blanket trying to cover the shameful sight below from the sun.

Nothing bothers him now. He is numb. His movements are mechanical, and he notices the same is true for all of his family.

They are winning, and they know it. The clearer it becomes, the more strength they gain. They will be exhausted when this is over – not physically, but emotionally, spiritually. Carlisle both dreads and yearns for that time.

Now he beats one more body to the ground, crushes it with the heel of his hand and dives for another. Seconds tick by and necks crack open, but it is all just a wonderful song now.

One of his daughters helps him destroy a man. He cannot help but smirk at how well they work together. He only realizes it is Rosalie when he sees her blond hair shivering in the wind beside him. She stares at him with fiery eyes, a silent but loving "you owe me," flung out to him before she flees the scene, ready to help her sister next.

He will think of some way to repay her when this is over.

Right now he just wishes he could tell his wife how beautiful she looks.

**-}0{-**

He first spots the suspicious movement behind a tree on the edge of the field. A flash of long, dark, wavy hair fluttering before a small, pale face disappears from his sight.

Esme has seen it, too.

As his wife begins to narrow in on the hiding place, Carlisle comes from the other direction, ensuring that their victim is trapped with no way out.

The mysterious figure stumbles into sight, with the awkward balance of one who has not yet grown accustomed to a vampire's natural grace. The face beneath the dark hair is blanched, clearly female, and frightfully young.

He knows right away that something is wrong, unnatural about this newborn. She does not move to attack in any way, hardly makes a sound effort to even defend herself. She looks pitiful and scared and utterly innocent; her eyes may be red but they have no fire in them. She looks frantically from him to his wife, her eyes darting back and forth like a caged animal looking for escape.

He can already sense the trepidation coming from Esme, and he glances at her, knowing what he will find in her eyes. That precious, maternal protectiveness inside of his wife has snapped at the sight of this confused, helpless young girl. Carlisle's heart gives at the silent "_Can we keep her?_" written in his wife's gaze. It is the look many children give their parents when they happen across a lost puppy, and it is all but impossible to refuse.

But Carlisle realizes he would have spared this girl's life without his wife's encouragement.

There is something incredibly haunting in her face.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** Bree is here. :) _

_So what do you think of Carlisle's experience compared to Esme's?_


	3. Part III: Aftermath

**Part III: Aftermath**

_~Bree_

She saw only murders as the familiar faces of those who had trained with her were split into bursts of chalk dust. They all vanished before her eyes, and all she could do was hide away, frightful and helpless in this time of peril.

She feared the pain more than her life, in all honesty. It looked so unspeakably horrific, what they were going through on that battlefield. Those kids who had grown up in the backstreets of Seattle had seen fistfights, brawls, and even murders. Some of them had endured a home life of constant domestic violence. But Bree wagered that none of them had ever seen anything like this – not even in their worst nightmares.

So many hours they'd spent preparing for this moment. They knew what they were getting themselves into, they knew what was in store – or at least, they thought they did. Maybe this was how real soldiers felt before they went off to war. Maybe it was natural to be scared senseless once their eyes saw the horrors of combat.

She thought she would be ready, but now that she was here, she didn't want any part of it. Riley, in all his threatening rhetoric, had made it seem as if it would be so easy, as if they would have the upper hand.

These Cullens were worse than they thought.

Bree didn't know vampires could be like this – so heartless, so ruthless.

They were more like machines than men and women.

Without a heartbeat, the only thing that revealed the rhythm of her terror was her breathing. In and out, out and in, her lungs contracting and expanding beneath her chest. She heard the sound of air passing through her undead body – it felt cold and heavy when it filled her, and it exited her body the same way it entered.

She was just a vessel of venom now. She was nothing.

When they found her, she was shaking with fear. Their golden eyes were unsettling; like the ends of dead fireflies, they seemed to glow eerily in the overcast light of day. And despite what she had been told about this strange coven of vampires, Bree could see something fiercely _human_ in the way they approached her, like a pair of curious aliens whose intentions were peaceful but misunderstood...

She looked up at them, wanting nothing but mercy.

And that was what she received.

**-}o{-**

The blond boy watched her with his hawk-like stare, his face critical and calculating. He didn't trust her like the man and woman did. He kept a hand on her shoulder most of the time, and the rest of the time he paced around her like a defensive vulture, as if he were threatened by her imminent attack.

Jasper was his name.

He frightened her more than the others.

The rest were distant yet kind, but her abductors were most of all intrigued by her. The woman named Esme seemed ferociously interested in everything about her helpless captive. On several occasions, Bree had flinched in defense as the woman's gentle fingers came forward to touch her forehead or cheek. At first Bree had been uncomfortable with Esme's fascination, but after a while it became almost endearing, then reassuring… even addicting.

Wherever Esme happened to be, Bree was always sure to find her eyes flicking back to her to be sure that she was safe. It was odd, the way she was already acting like her mother.

But Bree somehow found herself acting like Esme's daughter.

She followed her everywhere she went. She hid behind her back when she was afraid.

She loved the way Esme looked at her. Loved the way she smiled and touched her hand in reassurance.

But most of all, Bree loved the sound of Esme's voice.

**-}o{-**

She had no idea what would happen now. Nothing was left on the field but the waste of bodies burning in a bonfire the size of a baobab tree. The fire flared with sickly sweet aromas, oddly colored flames bursting out from the dyes on the fabric of the dead vampries' clothing.

Bree felt like she had survived the brutality of a concentration camp firsthand, and by some miracle she had ended up the only victim whose life was spared. She remembered reading about things like this in history books. But history, as much as people liked to glamorize and glorify it, was not something that stayed safely locked away in the past. It was here and now.

Maybe one day she would tell her story, and they would call it history.

**-}o{-**

The Cullens were so very different from the other vampires she had known. With each passing instant she spend in their presence, this became more and more plain.

The blond man who went by the name of Carlisle went about giving orders to the rest of his family, attempting to organize the situation and keep everyone in their place. One did not have to be smart to realize he was their leader. But he went about leading in such a strange way. Strange, she could only define as being "nothing like Riley."

Bree found herself comparing Carlisle's leadership to Riley's in her head as she watched the dynamics of the Cullen clan play out before her. It appeared that whenever the man was stressed, the rest became agitated. Yet whenever he exuded calmness, they were all infected with a quiet peace.

She wondered briefly if he had them under some kind of mind-control... Riley's poisonous words had yet to fade completely from her wary mind.

Then, everything changed.

Bree stood still as the clan's patriarch slowly approached her and took her hand in his. She perceived no threat from him as she had with the others, and the touch of his hand felt caring, even affectionate. With soft spoken words he told her that his family was going to do whatever it took to save her.

A new wave of terror seized her heart at his promise. His words implied that her safety was not yet ensured.

As if this should have put her at ease, he let her fingers go and placed his hand on her head like a father would to his small child. Bree felt dizzy and ill, brimming with questions yet too shocked and scared to speak a single word. But her fears were put to rest as Carlisle locked his eyes to hers and whispered these words:

_"Such a promising soul I see in you." _

Then he walked back to the fire and stood before it, utterly still. He looked to be in a meditative state, his head bowed so that his eyes were lost in the flames. He looked so haunted, so... ashamed.

He had regrets about what they had all done. That much was clear from the hollow sadness she saw in his eyes.

His mysterious words echoed in her ears, the pangs of his sincerity tempting her to weep though she could make no tears.

If it was a promising soul he had seen in her, she wanted nothing but the chance to live.

* * *

><p><em>~Carlisle<em>

He saw the pair of them as they came into sight, Bella limping slightly with her hand held by Edward's. A flash of sunlight threw itself over them, causing his son's skin to glisten and Bella's hair to shine like rust.

The rest of his family rushed to greet them, huddling around them in a flurry of hugs and kisses, and exultant _"We made it!"'s. _

He watched his wife suffocate Bella with an overwhelming embrace, and fling her arms desperately around their son's neck as she cried against him. Carlisle's heart turned over as he watched the scene from a distance, incredulous at the way his normally unemotional son returned the desperation in every embrace he was given.

When he finally found himself face to face with his boy, he could think of nothing to say. Words were often lost in the most treasured moments, but Edward somehow managed to unearth the right ones against all odds.

"To think we might never have seen each other again," he murmured against his father's shoulder.

Carlisle held his son tighter than he ever had before.

**-}o{-**

Jacob Black was a brave boy.

Perhaps a bit too brave, at least just enough to be irrational in times like this. He was headstrong and stubborn and he was about to be crushed to death.

None of them saw the attack coming, but Jacob had been the first to act.

A backward phase from wolf to man - especially while that wolf's bones had been skewed out of place - was a disturbing thing to witness, even for a vampire.

Jacob was sprawled on the ground, his limbs twisted at all the wrong angles, his face contorted in pain. Bella ran to him in an impressive panic, droplets of sweat appearing on her temples faster than dandelions in springtime. Carlisle hated to have to push her aside. He could feel her body shuddering when his hand was on her shoulder, and it felt like a sin to tell her to look away.

His ribs were broken. Every single one of them, it appeared.

His body was burning up as if he were laying on a mattress of hot coals. He was losing time while his body was already racing to heal the broken bones.

It was possible that he might not even make it to the end of the night, yet the rest of the pack were arguing passionately about how they could be the most help to him.

At least he was in the best of hands.

As much as Carlisle regretted the smallest delay, Jacob Black and his life threatening injuries would have to wait.

It was Alice's voice that rose above the commotion.

"They're coming."

**-}o{-**

The Volturi were always conveniently late.

They came into the field with their black robes flowing out behind them on the wind like poisonous ink. Their faces were statue-like and emotionless, just like he'd always remembered them being. At least Aro had always had the decency to show emotion. The rest of them were unfeeling minions made to carry out malicious deeds.

Carlisle knew precisely what their excuse would be. They had come to "clean up a mess" – and they wouldn't even do that.

They would leave the scene just as they found it, unless they had reason to cause more damage than was already done.

He feared this above all.

Glancing back at the little wide-eyed girl behind him, Carlisle found himself growing more nervous by the second as the small group of robed figures approached from the distance.

The same merciless banter. The same frustrating circular conversation. No matter what reasons he gave for his choice to provide asylum for the girl, they would hear none of it.

He was talking to a wall with four sneering faces on it.

Even then he knew how it was going to end.

He praised Edward for coming to his defense, multiple times to no avail. But it felt incredible to have his family at his side nonetheless. They came out of their victory knowing that the end would not be in their favor. Carlisle had known this was coming, but that didn't keep him from his foolish wish: That if he prayed for a miracle, his will would rise above the Volturi's ruthless crusade.

He was a fool to wish for it.

Jane's smile left him feeling empty and nauseated. With a sickeningly soft voice she ordered Felix to take care of the unwanted refugee.

Bree screamed.

Her shrieks were one of the most haunting sounds Carlisle had ever heard.

Esme's hand shot out to grab his arm, her grip like steel. Her eyes were blank, her face never looked more like death. She was too distraught to react, and it _killed _him that she had to witness this. Every part of him wanted to take away the pain in her heart, but he was just as crippled by the injustice of it all. He wished the sun would fall from the sky and set them all aflame.

For once, Carlisle was proud to be a fool for wishing this.

Bree's screaming stopped.

Esme's hand gripped his arm tighter.

He knew when he lifted his sleeve tomorrow, the marks would still be there.

**-}o{-**

Carlisle had never killed a single man or woman before this day. The rest of his family knew this, but they did not look at him any differently now than they did yesterday. This baffled him.

The impact of it should have been greater. He wondered why he could not feel the battering of guilt on his soul for what he had done. He felt pain, of course, but it was not a terrible, crushing kind of pain. He did not curse himself for the lives he had taken, and he did not feel that God was cursing him from the heavens either. He felt instead a quiet cry of regret in his heart, but no more than this.

No matter how small he felt the transgression was, his anger was subsiding slowly but surely. Sooner or later he feared he might fall under the weight of what he had done, and his family would be there to watch him break down.

Then he saw Esme, and he thought this would not _have _to happen.

She was still shaking all over from having watched the death of the innocent young girl. When she saw his eyes on her, she held her head up, trying to look brave for him. He could see in her eyes that she was drowning in sorrow, but she would show none of it on her face.

Something terrible happened then.

Carlisle saw his wife with her well worn mask of bravery, and he lost all grips on his control.

As much as he wanted to, he could not match her almost flawless facade. Now that the rest had left, there was nothing to keep him from letting himself go. Only his wife would see it...

It was little more than a tiny twitch in his expression. No other person would have caught it, but Esme had eyes for this kind of thing. She knew him far too well.

Immediately, she rushed to him and grasped his shoulders just as it began to rain softly over their heads.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to look at my hands again," he admitted brokenly, his eyes cast to the ground, his lips trembling.

His wife took his hands into her own and raised them to her lips, kissing both palms with heady affection. "Your hands are _good_, Carlisle," she whispered fervently, forcing his hand to cradle her cheek as she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. Droplets of rain streamed down her cheeks, pooling in his palm.

He turned his face away with vehemence, ashamed to be touching her after all he had done. But he could not bring himself to pull his hand away, despite how terribly it stung to hold her.

"Do you think I would let myself be touched by a man whose hands I did not trust with my life and heart?" she challenged him in a frighteningly passionate whisper.

Bravely, he looked back to her face.

"You will never be anything less than pure in my eyes, Carlisle," she continued, low and desperate, running her hands through his rain-soaked hair. "I have known your soul, and there is no way I can ever forget it."

Her words shattered inside of him.

"My love..." He wept for her, and her arms took him down, buried his face in her neck and swept the length of his back until he felt the tremors fading.

Like all wonderful, beautiful things, their slippery embrace came to an end.

Esme looked up at him with her head held high and her eyes rippling with passion as she took firm hold of both his wrists.

"Now take your hands – _your good, righteous hands – _and heal the brave young boy who needs you."

**-}o{-**

Carlisle watched his own hands while he worked, entranced by the contrast of his ghostly pale skin with the bronze brilliance of Jacob's young chest. His fingers moved faster than he would have ever allowed them to move in front of his human patients. He could take advantage of the full range of his abilities, something he relished more than he thought he would on this night.

Carlisle did not realize just how badly he had _needed_ this opportunity, to help, to heal.

And it made it all the more glorious that Jacob Black needed _him. _

It hit Carlisle like a load of bricks then, just how _young _this Jacob was. With his face contorted in anguish and his body writhing in pain, Jacob reminded Carlisle of the little wailing infants he had occasionally delivered at the hospital. He looked too fragile lying there with his ribs in pieces and his forehead scrunched in agony. It broke Carlisle's heart knowing the only way to help him would require hurting him first.

He prayed the entire time he re-broke the boy's bones.

It pained him to watch Jacob's suffering, but something remarkable was happening in the midst of it. Carlisle suddenly found that he was comfortable with looking at his own hands again. The beautiful irony of what he was doing now struck him like a bolt of tender lightning. He had shattered the bones of his enemies to kill them, and now he shattered the bones of a friend to save his life.

Esme was right. His hands _were _good. They never stopped being good. Here, they were instruments of healing, not weapons. Here, he began to feel their purpose once again.

"Hang in there, Jacob. I know this is a lot to ask, but I need you to keep still for me."

Jacob yelped as another rib was snapped beneath the doctor's hands. For such a grown man's body Jacob had the face of a child. As tears streamed down his soft russet cheeks, the massive muscles in his chest bulged when he flinched. Everything about Jacob Black seemed a contradiction.

"Aaah!" the boy let out another heartrending shriek.

The morphine was doing nothing but melting inside his body. Carlisle worked as fast as he could, but the boy's feverish temperature was burning the powerful narcotic at a staggering rate, rendering it useless as water.

"I promise I'm almost finished, son. Once more, now. You must keep as still as you can!"

Jacob let forth an impressive scream. Another flurry of male murmurs arose outside the poorly insulated house. They were all terribly concerned about him. Most of all his father.

Just the thought of a concerned father spurred Carlisle to hurry his pace. _He_ wouldn't have wanted to wait if it were one of _his_ children in critical condition...

"Shh, shh. It's all right," he told Jacob as he felt the last bone slide into place. "We're done. You're done."

"God, it... it kills!" Jacob managed through gritted teeth, clutching his bed sheets as his back arched from the mattress.

"I know it does, but you have to trust me," Carlisle said as he injected the last of the narcotics he had on hand into Jacob's arm and hurriedly prepared a pack of ice. "This is the only way your body will heal properly."

Jacob's writhing settled surprisingly, as soon as his doctor laid the bag of ice cubes against his side. His eyes were still squeezed tightly shut, and his hands were still pasted to the sheets, but his forehead had gone smooth with the tiniest bit of relief, and his breathing slowed.

Carlisle dragged the ice gently along the boy's side, making note of all the cuts and bruises that would soon need to be bandaged as he went along. The poor boy had more injuries than all the rest of them put together.

With his free hand, Carlisle took a hand towel and swiped the perspiration from Jacob's forehead. The peaceful hum of crickets could easily be heard through the room's thin wooden walls; he listened with the hope that the sound would soothe Jacob if all remained quiet and still. A few minutes passed that way, and it seemed to be working. Then Jacob's lips parted to speak.

"Why... is this happening... to me?" he muttered deliriously.

Carlisle finally rested the ice pack on the boy's forehead and patiently explained, "Jacob your body has a tremendous healing rate. All it wants is to put itself back together as quickly as possible. However it's unfortunately working against you in this case." With a careful dose of light humor, he added, "And I admit I am poorly equipped when it comes to treating a werewolf through to recovery."

Carlisle felt a fierce wave of relief as Jacob's wince flickered for a moment into a reluctant smile. His black, almond eyes peeked open for an instant before he asked, "Can you tell my dad that I'm okay now?"

An apologetic smile crossed Carlisle's face. "I need to stay here and monitor you for a few more minutes." His ears could pick up the whispers of relief just outside the front door, and he added reassuringly, "But I'm sure they're taking your silence as a good sign."

"They're _all_ out there?" Jacob sounded hopeful.

"Of course they are," Carlisle confirmed with a grin that went unseen. "They're worried sick about you."

Despite the pain he was in, Jacob managed to look just a bit smug as this piece of information was shared with him.

"Sure, sure," he mumbled, attempting to turn slightly on his side.

"Ah-ah. Stay on your back, boy."

"Arghh! Are you kidding?"

Carlisle shook his head as he adjusted the boy's pillow. "It's going to be an uncomfortable night for you, I regret to say."

"Yeah, well, that's nothing new." Jacob's forehead screwed up in a flinch of sudden pain.

"Lightheaded?" Carlisle guessed.

"Yeah..."

Jacob's eyes flickered open, only to snap shut in response to the pen light Carlisle held at the ready above his head.

"Don't even think about it."

Carlisle held his tongue and reluctantly pocketed the pen light.

"You _must_ be dehydrated, Jacob," Carlisle mentioned disapprovingly, reaching down to pull a bottle out of his bag. "Can you drink this?"

Jacob took one glance at the label and made a face. "Gatorade? Nah. Hate the stuff."

Carlisle smiled. "Understandable. It's basically a sugar-sodium solution." Jacob snorted. "We'll just try water instead."

Jacob was able to gulp down half a glass of ice water, the rest spilling carelessly onto his chin. As he watched, Carlisle was strongly reminded of a toddler learning to drink for the first time. His relentless tendency to compare Jacob Black to a child was becoming shameless.

"Better?" he asked as he took the glass and set it on the bedside table.

Jacob nodded, closing his eyes as his head hit the pillow. "I could've probably used a straw, though."

Carlisle resisted the urge to chuckle. "Next time I'll come better prepared."

He watched as Jacob's face twitched from a grateful half smile to a grim wince. His jaw tightened in what appeared to be anger, fresh tears leaking from underneath his weary eyelids.

Carlisle had just opened his mouth to ask what was wrong when Jacob interrupted him before he could speak.

"She doesn't believe in me," he said, his voice spent. Only a vampire could hear the words. "Not like she believes in _him_."

Carlisle looked down at the bedridden boy with scorching pity, knowing exactly of whom he spoke. He had never truly known Jacob Black on such an intimate level before, yet desperate times often turned out this way – with two perfect strangers spilling their most deeply kept secrets to the other, seeking the understanding of another.

Seizing hold of his resolve, Carlisle edged his chair closer to the boy's bed and took his gaze straight and true.

"You are a hero, Jacob," he whispered with conviction. "You need only to remind Bella of what you did for her on this day, and she will be forever in debt to you for your loyalty."

At this, Jacob smiled faintly. His face was weak and exhausted, but a glow of boyish pride gave Carlisle a quiet thrill of success.

"She will be, won't she?" Even in the boy's groggy voice, Carlisle could make out a sweet note of victory.

He smiled to himself as he began to bandage Jacob's injured chest. "But you mustn't tell my son that I've said this."

Jacob glanced dubiously up at the doctor through one eye. "Won't he read your thoughts?"

Carlisle shook his head with a satisfied smile. "Luckily for you, my mind has become rather impenetrable over the years."

That was the first time Carlisle heard the sound of Jacob Black's laughter. Even if it was weak, and cut short by a pang of sharp pain in his side – in any other circumstance it would have been undeniably infectious. He hoped to hear it again one day.

"You're alright, Doc," Jacob murmured reluctantly. "I mean...well... You _will _be once you hook me up with some more morphine." His hand patted his newly wrapped bandages and he twitched in pain.

"Are you certain you need it? Your body is doing remarkably well without it, you know."

Jacob looked inches from a heart attack. "Oh, _God. _Don't even joke like that."

Carlisle gave Jacob a genuine smile as he finished taping up the bandages and tucked the ice pack beneath the pillow.

"I'll take care of you, Jacob," he assured, standing up to gather his things. "Give me ten minutes, and I'll be back with everything that you need."

"Wait."

Carlisle paused in the doorway to look back at his hopeful patient.

"Can you...s—send Bella in? Please."

"Of course." He nodded as his hand reached for the knob.

"And Doc?"

Carlisle turned around one last time.

"Thanks," Jacob whispered. "For everything."

There, upon that cramp little bed, wrapped up in bandages and running a fever over one hundred ten degrees, Carlisle no longer saw a child. He saw a young man who had been stripped of all his pride and given a set of broken ribs in honor of unrequited love.

Slipping his stethoscope from around his neck, Carlisle humbly bowed his head. "You're welcome, Jacob."

The boy's lips attempted to make more words, but they were lost on him. Carlisle spared him of his efforts with a smile as he opened the door.

"I'll let your father know that you're doing just fine," he promised. "Stay strong, Jacob."

And the door closed soundlessly behind him.


	4. Part IV: Healing

**Part IV: Healing**

The hospital was pleasantly quiet that night, save for the several young nurse practitioners who were chasing after a rogue cricket that had somehow made it inside the pharmacy.

With his impeccable hearing, Doctor Cullen could have easily pinpointed the whereabouts of the mischievous insect. However, he was in too great a hurry this evening to offer his assistance.

He quickly made his way through the examination rooms on the first level corridor, picking up only what he needed for his waiting patient. He might not be able to ensure Jacob a full night's rest, but the least he could provide was some relief for the pain.

The roads were lonely at night, but in a surprisingly pleasant way. The night was humid but cool, so he rode with the windows down. High beam headlights would have been a necessity for any other driver, but Carlisle knew this particular road by heart. Soon he would be passing over the small bridge on the creek that led straight to his home. The idea of taking the detour just to stop and see his wife was quite appealing despite the emergency that awaited him on the reservation. It was tempting enough that he pressed gently on the brakes when he reached the fork in the road that would lead up to their hidden mansion in the forest.

He considered a brief visit with his family for less than instant before reminding himself that doing so would only keep him distracted from the very important task at hand.

Carlisle returned to Billy Black's home and was greeted with a far friendlier face than he had earlier that evening. If not for the sheen of stressful sweat that coated the man's wrinkled forehead, Carlisle would have believed the chief of the Quileute Council hadn't a care in the world over his son's health.

Billy's smile was almost as brilliant as Jacob's. Perhaps it had been at one time in his youth.

"I cannot thank you enough, Doctor."

The look on his face and the tone of gratitude in his voice were enough reward for Carlisle. But even more rewarding was the sight of Jacob's eyes swiftly closing into slumber once the medicine was delivered to his body.

It looked as though the boy would be having a good night's rest after all.

Carlisle left the Quileute territory that night feeling satisfied with all he had accomplished. The only downside had been the surprising and unexpected length of time he'd spent talking to Billy Black on the porch after Jacob had finally fallen asleep.

It was well past midnight when Carlisle finally made it home.

In such a rush to find his wife, he did not bother pulling into the garage first. Instead he parked the car a few feet from the driveway on the side of the road and pocketed his keys so that he could run the rest of the way toward the front door.

Her scent drifted toward him, inviting him towards her – but it was not coming from inside their home. Curiously, he followed her sweet presence into the dark, damp woods, heading up the steep hill beside the house.

He found her standing alone in her hilltop garden, hugging a tree in the dim wooded clearing while she listened to the lonely trickle of the water fountain. She was wearing a throw blanket around her shoulders, and sandals on her feet. Her knees were drawn together in an endearingly insecure way that made her appear younger than she actually was.

He opened his mouth, about to request that she follow him back into the house, but he was interrupted by the sound of shrill cries and muffled growls echoing hauntingly through the other side of the forest, somewhere off in the dark.

"Emmett and Rose," Esme explained numbly.

Carlisle shifted uncomfortably, wondering if it would be more appropriate to stay inside the house tonight.

"Alice and Jasper asked for the house tonight," she added quietly when she saw him glance back to their warmly lit home at the bottom of the hillside.

His eyes furrowed in pity when he looked back to his wife, suddenly realizing why she had chosen to spend the night by herself out here. He instantly wished he'd been hasty enough to come back sooner, but his regrets were the last thing that would comfort her.

"I see... so that leaves us with the garden," he said, allowing his English accent to lazily conquer the words.

She credited him with a tiny smile, still melancholy and slightly bitter from the lonely hours she had spent waiting for him to return.

He bit his lip shyly, gesturing to the tall tree trunk she was still holding onto. "Aren't you going to cling to _me_ for a while instead?"

Her smile broadened apologetically as she abandoned her tree, dropped the blanket from her shoulders, and rushed into her husband's embrace. She buried her face in his shoulder and his soft chuckling shuddered through her. "You have tree sap all over your hands, darling."

Esme pulled her hands away from his sweater in embarrassment, her palms sticking slightly to the fabric.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she moaned quietly, wiping them against her thighs.

He tugged her back against him without a care. "Nonsense. I like when you stick to me."

She shook her head against his shoulder, smiling out of sight as he shook with silent laughter. He held her for a while, peacefully breathing in her scent, simply rejoicing that she was here, safe and whole in his arms.

"You haven't lit any of your lanterns," he observed, gazing out at the dark garden path behind her.

"I was waiting for you," her muffled voice came from below.

His heart clenched and he held her small body tighter before he let her go to move up the path. "Let's light one now."

Kneeling on the stone path, Carlisle reached beneath the first lantern to find and prepare the flint. His hands worked diligently until they had produced a spark, which he nursed to life inside the bowl of ashes. Little nearby flower buds that had closed up for the night stirred when they sensed the light he had lit, leaning towards the flickering tongues of fire.

Esme watched from the end of the path, admiring his graceful movements from behind. The wind tugged gently at his loose blond hair while he worked close to the ground, his hands growing slightly dirty from handling the ashes. She saw flickers of his youth in the way he moved so swiftly, in the way his hair curled on the nape of his neck, in the sweet, humble way he smiled at the fire he had created.

_How she had missed him..._

Carlisle had a sense of deep, honest maturity about him, something that had fascinated her to no end since the very first day they met. Were he human, Esme imagined she would see modest streaks of silver in his golden hair. His smooth palms would have been calloused, bearing the scars of his hard work as a surgeon for so many years. The fleeting wrinkle that sometimes exposed worry on his forehead would find itself a permanent home between his eyebrows. His lips would have lost their fullness by now, dulled by winter after winter of cold, dry air – and having been battered slowly over time by his wife's reckless kisses.

A small smile swept across her lips at the romantic thought. But reality gave her a harsh bite in the heart when she saw that her husband was still immortal, frozen as a young man whose wisdom made him look so beautifully out of place.

He got up, brushed his hands on his pants and stood back from the lantern, looking to his wife with an affectionate smile. She hugged herself when a cold wind passed by, still tentative to share his joy when the events from that morning still lingered so freshly in her mind. Everyone else seemed to be moving on. Once again, Esme found herself feeling left behind.

Carlisle took pity on her, but he knew with patience she would come around. The honest cure to her discomfort was time alone. What they truly needed were a few hours of uninterrupted intimacy... But their children had unintentionally put a delay on that plan.

It was no matter. They could wait.

He walked to the place where she had abandoned her thin woven blanket and bent over to pick it up and bundle it in his hands. He then moved to sit on the iron bench across from the fire, lifting one arm to lay invitingly on the back with space to spare beside him.

Esme didn't know exactly why she lingered on the far side of the garden, away from him when she should have been pasted to his side. The scrapes the newborns' teeth had left behind on her flesh felt inflamed from the friction beneath her clothes, and a part of her wanted to keep the wounds hidden from him out of shame. As a subtle explanation for her hesitation, she lifted a hand to discreetly rub the side of her neck.

"Let me see them," Carlisle beckoned her with a voice so gentle it made her stomach flutter.

It had been a long time since she'd felt that sensation because of his voice. Something about this night had changed her forever, making her realize just how precious her husband's care and attention was to her.

She hesitated at first, lingering at a distance while her fingers prodded the wounds on her skin, hiding the evidence of her pain from his prying eyes.

"If we can have nothing more, let us use this as a time for healing our physical wounds," he whispered keenly, beckoning her with his arm outstretched across his knee. His fingers extended towards her, curling ever so slightly inward as an invitation for her to come near.

Her brief moment of hesitation ended when she saw his fingers drawing her forward. She settled down beside him on the bench and tucked her hair over one shoulder, letting him view the half-healed gashes on her neck. His eyes blazed beautifully, reflecting the pain he saw in her etched flesh. Concern and anger spread over his face in a gentle mask, pulling his lips into a small frown as he carefully tugged her collar aside.

Esme made no move to resist, sitting in utter stillness as she awaited the promise of Carlisle's perpetual healing. One by one, he licked her wounds with the tip of his tongue – with a finesse only a familiar lover would have – and the intensity of a well-practiced physician. The sensual strokes warmed her from the inside out and soothed the sting beneath her weakened skin. When the soft beat of his breath did not burn her flesh any longer, she shyly slid her sleeve down over the curve of her shoulder, revealing the lacerations on her arm. He bowed his head without a word and touched his venom coated tongue to the aching marks while she closed her eyes, sighing her relief.

He sealed each moistened wound with a delicate kiss, moving swiftly but with ample care for each cut he treated. Occasionally he would whisper faint, unlinked words against her skin as he worked to heal her. Nothing he said formed a complete sentence, but rather a disconnected thought. He murmured vague little nouns as if they were poetry – _"here" and "there" _he repeated after every scrape was sealed. He talked to himself in the endearing way that good doctors sometimes do when they must treat a patient for whom they care very deeply. _"I'll take care of you," "I have you," "I'll fix it... I'll fix everything." _

She relished his familiar phrases, taking comfort in the quiet repetition, the predictable puffs of heat that accompanied his voice when he spoke so close to her bare skin. She was both relieved and a little bit sad when his attentions at last expired.

She nearly wept when he gently rolled her sleeve back up over her shoulder and cuffed the collar of her blouse against her neck. She could see a tiny glimmer of satisfaction in his kind eyes as he sat up straight and appraised her flawless skin. He had been so heartbreakingly thorough; she only hoped she could return the favor in some way, no matter how small.

Seeking his permission, she leaned forward and gingerly pressed her fingers to the firm space just below his Adam's apple.

"They didn't touch your neck..." she whispered in awe, feeling the utterly smooth skin that still shrouded his throat.

"I didn't let them," he said in a dark, hushed voice.

A hot, pleased spark filled her belly. Only _she _was allowed to touch his neck. Carlisle had protected himself against every attack that threatened to mar the sacredness of that space; he had preserved this precious place for _her_, even in a battle.

She leaned close and kissed the column of his throat anyway – a tranquil, chaste kiss – then looked searchingly up into his eyes.

In a hollow whisper, he murmured, "One bit my wrist," turning his hand over to reveal the pale remnants of the gash.

"You sealed it well," she observed, rotating his hand in the darkness to get a better look.

"The burning has subsided," he noted, stroking a finger over the faint crack in his flesh, "but it still aches."

Here, he was seeking her healing, she realized. Though Carlisle had been fortunate enough to emerge from the battle quite nearly unscathed, he still wished to have some physical wounds for _her _to cure. Esme diligently fulfilled his unspoken wish, tending to the already healed wound with her soft lips. On his wrist, she placed five lingering kisses, tasting him with the tip of her tongue each time. He marveled at the sensation, how her maternal nurturing offered him comfort while her innate sensuality tickled his desire. It was a perfectly stirring combination, one that he wanted to cling to for as long as he possibly could.

He was equally disappointed when she lifted her head and ceased her ministrations. For a good while they sat together in silence, listening to the song of the crickets and letting the cool, slightly sticky night air bathe them until they were chilled beneath their skin.

"I know what you feel," Esme spoke at last. She had studied her husband's eyes too long – so long that she knew not only what he felt, but what he _wished _he felt as well.

Carlisle knew there was nothing he could hide from her watchful eyes. Her maternally observant nature allowed her to see so far past what he showed on the exterior, it was useless trying to hide anything from her. Too often, Esme named his emotions before he could put a name to them himself.

"It is so strange, love. My body and mind feel almost weary," he confessed, his eyes drawn downward, his long lost accent lacing the ends of a broken whisper.

"Is it so unnatural for us?" his wife asked with a dim smile. Her hand rose to cup his cheek. "If there should be any night where we allow ourselves to feel this way, it would be tonight."

He looked around them in a series of furtive glances, as if double checking the garden to be sure they were indeed alone. Then his eyes came again to rest on her, confounded as he stared hard at her beautiful face. "Do you feel it as well? That all your physical strength has been spent?" he asked in a small voice, unsure.

Her eyes cocked slightly with a thoughtful twinkle, and her lip flickered into its corner, bringing a dimple to play upon her cheek. Carlisle's heart was comforted and filled with mirth at the sight, lost in an overwhelming urge to kiss her.

"Yes," she answered, her amber eyes glowing with honesty. Her hand turned over to graze her knuckles affectionately down his jaw. "You feel ... tired, in a way?"

He nodded, feeling that little winged pest of shame flutter away as she looked up at him with sheer understanding. His eyes fell closed as he nudged his cheek into her touch, savoring the warmth of her hand. "My body aches," he admitted, then in a passion-filled whisper, "_but my spirit is thriving.._."

Esme felt a chill run deep within her, chased down by a pang of sadness that she must wait to know the strength of his spirit another night. Her fingers on his cheek trembled with longing, her eyes worshipping his peaceful countenance while he feigned perfect slumber in her hand.

His eyes opened to her, and the light of the distant lantern danced within them. "Just think of all we have conquered together. You and I." His voice was always so delightfully firm when he spoke of them as an impenetrable pair, and it made her breath deepen.

She felt his fingers probing her own in her lap until they were intimately entwined – warm and tightly tangled. She gripped his hand hard, never wanting him to let her go.

She swallowed a thick forming lump in her throat and cast her eyes down to their hands. "Oh, my love," she sighed, bowing her head to press her lips to his tender knuckles. If Carlisle had any residing doubt in the blessings of his hands, Esme had slaughtered them on sight, insisting every one of his fingers was pure enough to deserve a fervent kiss.

"How you tempt me, Esme," he rasped, gentle desperation shining in his reverent eyes. "Please, let your lips speak with words and not touch... for now."

She smiled shyly to herself as she let go of his fingers. Where other men would become tongue-tied, Carlisle became indecently articulate, beckoning his anciently verbose manner of speaking. He would wince when a word of early English slipped from his tongue, but Esme would only chuckle in endearment.

She would have kissed that fleeting wince away, but he had so nobly requested that she withhold her touch for the time being. He stared into her eyes on the very edge of his wits, seeking redemption, which she granted in the form of a brief but reassuring smile.

As a move of mercy, she deigned to change the subject.

"Carlisle?"

"Hm?" Just a tiny vibration of a word, yet he made it sound far too fond.

"Those flower petals that fell out of your book the other night?" She cocked her head and blinked her lovely eyelashes in a way that only she managed to make look affectionate. He could see that she had sought the answer to this question for many days now, and it thrilled him.

His eyes sparkled madly in the approaching blue light of dawn. "I knew you wanted to ask me."

"You never explained it... Not even then," she accused gently, moving closer to him on the bench and setting her hands on his lap.

"I never thought to tell you more than what you saw," he said regretfully, stroking her face with tender fingers. His voice lowered, his eyes searching. "You know the story already in your heart, I think."

"Tell me anyway," Esme demanded in a whisper. "Where did the flower come from?"

Carlisle looked longingly about the dimly lit garden before he began to explain in a soft voice, "I used to pick flowers so often when I was alone. The ones I pressed inside that book of Spanish poetry came from a garden in Pamplona."

Esme smiled, having guessed the flower was from an exotic place. She summoned its enchanting scent in her memory and closed her eyes before resting her head on his shoulder as he continued the story.

"I would take the flowers home with me and I would care for them until they wilted. I suppose I just needed something to nurture, something that would depend on me...and...appreciate me." His voice broke slightly at the memories, how he would sometimes grow so exceptionally lonely that he would even _kiss _the flower's petals. Perhaps one day he would share this secret with Esme. "I had just been longing for something that would receive my love," he added quietly.

"There was something about those particular flowers that I had grown very attached to, and I never wanted to part with them. So I pressed them inside my books and kept them with me forever." He draped his arm over the back of the bench and plucked a small Azalea bloom from the foliage to aid in his reminiscence. "Their fragrance has dulled and their color has muted, but I can still remember their scent – so sweet and exquisite – from when I'd first picked them off the vine." His voice faded as his fingers swept reverently over the fine purple petals.

He looked directly into Esme's face, and his gaze tickled her along with his distant smile. On an impulse, he tucked the flower behind her ear, stroking her hair back to make room for its perfect perch. The bright purple complemented her warm amber eyes so beautifully under a blanket of shadowy dawn. His heart was full as she looked up to him in a wide-eyed stare and asked in gentle pity, "You kept your flowers all those years?"

She watched, heartbroken, as downy lashes closed slowly over his eyes. His lips opened then closed just as quickly in a familiar gesture of hesitation. Without ever looking her straight in the eye, he broke silently under the weight of her expectant stare and let himself descend into her arms.

"Hold me closer," he commanded, his voice still deep and masculine, a glorious contrast to the burning plea in his words.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I just needed to know," she apologized quietly, generously strumming the muscles of his back to console him.

She could almost feel his feeble smile against her shoulder. "Oh, I want to share _more _with you, Esme. All of..._this _has made me wonder why I've still kept so much of my life a secret from you."

Esme smiled understandingly, her eyes drifting over his shoulder towards the distant light of dawn that sparkled between the trees. "You were always the one who told me that something good will inevitably come out of something we believe to be a curse."

"And it has, Esme," he whispered to her, his hands fastened firmly behind her back. "Something good has come of this already."

"I never doubted it," she confirmed boldly, feeling as if her eyes were swimming with real tears. "Deep down, I never did." The quiver in her voice prompted him to raise his head from her shoulder and look into her eyes. "I wanted you to know that, too," she whispered.

"I already knew," he told her with heartbreaking strength in his voice. "How could I not when I had only to watch you lay your life down for all of us the way you did out there?" He slowly shook his head in awe-filled disbelief. "You may not have recognized it then, but you had faith from the very beginning that it would be worth the struggle in the end."

"Because my heart was with yours the entire time." Her voice was like a soft coo, a whisper, a secret between lovers meant to be exchanged on a pillow.

Carlisle's face shone with inspiration against the darkness of the surrounding forest, his eyes glimmering like embers as his fingertips touched her face. "Lord, in this moment I cannot believe I will ever know doubt again," he marveled breathlessly, his hand rising up to cradle her cheek as if she were made of gold. "We can do anything, Esme. _Anything_."

"Truly..."

They stared at each other with slightly sleepy smiles, some brimming hope being shared between their locked gazes, communing in an utterly silent exchange. He stared so deeply into her eyes that she began to feel a sweet shortness of breath, as if weights were being pressed ever so gently against her chest. The sensation overwhelmed her until she closed her eyes and tucked his hand snugly into her own, letting her senses savor his nearness.

She felt him lean close, his nose pressed to the fragrant petals of the blossom he had placed behind her ear. He left a chaste kiss on her temple and rested his head atop hers, staring out at the first peeks of sunrise that glistened green and gold between the trees.

"I missed the sun," Carlisle sighed, holding his wife tighter as he thought of all the wonderful things daylight promised.

Esme took a deep breath and turned to look out at the beautiful explosion of colors in the East, echoing his sigh.

"It always comes up again."

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **__Thanks for all your kind reviews and comments on this story. I've enjoyed exploring this segment of Eclipse, and I was very happy to have so many readers along for the ride. _

_Chapter 8 in my story **Our Love is Art** will continue this scene where Esme and Carlisle finally have the house to themselves. So if you were hoping this scene would follow up with a lemon, be sure and visit Chapter 8, "Inspired by Turquoise" in Our Love is Art.  
><em>


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